


Command Animal

by threeblueribbons



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Breton/Bosmer - Freeform, F/M, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-14
Updated: 2019-02-14
Packaged: 2019-10-28 14:01:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17788739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/threeblueribbons/pseuds/threeblueribbons
Summary: The Priestess of Kynareth who passes through Ivarstead from time to time has a strange favor to ask Gwilin… could he pretty-please use his Command Animal gift to let her pet a Cave Bear?Fill for the Skyrim Kink Meme requesting a Breton/Bosmer pairing.





	Command Animal

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first ever kink-meme fill. I can only hope this snippet of writing brings you a fraction of the happiness the writers on this meme have brought me.

Gwilin knew that spring had truly reached Ivarstead when the Priestess of Kynareth came blustering through the village like the goddess of the storm herself. He had never learned her name because they had never spoken; well, _she_ had never spoken, not beyond a grunt or a nod. Gwilin, on the other hand, had used about every greeting in his arsenal.

The first time she came through it was, “Such a fine day – smell the air! Isn’t it wonderful?” He was graced with nothing but a scowl from the tiny woman swathed in pink and gold. He noticed that an Amulet of Kynareth bounced upon her chest as she walked, but she disappeared so quickly that he didn’t have time to take in much else. So he shrugged and went back to work. It was late in the evening when she returned, and that time he tried a subtler, “I hope life’s treating you well, friend.” This drew a curt, humorless laugh out of her and brief eye contact, but nothing more.

When she returned the following month, he had attempted a more specific greeting, seeing as she was once again crossing the bridge leading to the Seven Thousand Steps: “Hail, pilgrim! Enjoy your journey to High Hrothgar!”

She may have been about to answer him, but Miss Temba had leaned over and snapped, “Gwilin! Stop harassing every gods-damned person who walks by your chopping block!”

Gwilin wasn’t sure how a warm salutation could be taken as harassment, but then, his boss had always been far more bark than bite. He shifted his attention away from the priestess to apologize, and when he turned around again she was on the other side of the bridge.

She came once more that spring, and then three times the next spring, then three times the spring after that. He had never relented in his cheerful greetings, and the priestess had rewarded him with all manner of huffs and grunts in reluctant acknowledgement. It didn’t bother Gwilin in the slightest. Most Nords were laconic, though he wasn’t sure of her race. If she was a Nord, she was awfully short.

And every year, as the brutal dog days of summer eclipsed the cool, forgiving spring, Gwilin forgot about the plump little priestess. Only to be reminded of her when the year came full circle, and his amber eyes alit upon her robed figure rushing towards the bridge.

“Hello, my friend!” he called out, seeing her for the first time that season. “Anything I can do for you on such a fine day?”

He wasn’t sure what had possessed him to say that last part – perhaps it was the niggling suspicion that the scowls were _because_ of something, that all she needed was for someone to reach out in kindness.

The woman paused at that and, for the first time in the four years they had been seeing each other, turned to face him. Although her peach-colored robe and yellow hood hid much, he finally got a good look at her. She was short and rotund, though he already knew that, but he found himself instantly appreciating her wide hips and ample chest. A few auburn tresses hung just above her shoulders, framing a fair, pudgy face with emerald eyes. She was fetching, no doubt about that. He couldn’t help but think she would be prettier if she smiled.

“You seem quite happy,” the priestess observed. Her voice was clipped, appraising, but not harsh.

He grinned. “My father taught me an important lesson many years ago. He said, ‘Gwilin, you have the whole world before you. Go out and experience it… Be whatever you want to be.’ So, I took his advice, and here I am.”

“Whatever you wanted to be… was a sawyer?” she asked – again, not unkindly.

“I love working close to earth,” he confirmed. “My boss, Miss Temba, pays me fairly and has a good heart. The people in this town are kind to me, and Wilhelm at the Vilemyr Inn is the best cook in Skyrim! This life may not look like much to you, but I’m content. Isn’t that all that matters?”

To Gwilin’s great surprise, a small smile tugged at her lips. “It is, Gwilin. Kynareth bless you.”

“Thank you. Likewise.” Before she turned away, he rushed, “What is your name?”

She seemed to consider a moment before responding. “Claudette.” With that, the priestess wrapped her robes more tightly around her body and hastened towards the bridge, leaving Gwilin with a lingering smile he could not seem to shake for the rest of the day.

\---

 

Gwilin had lived at the Vilemyr Inn ever since he had taken up residence in Ivarstead ten years ago. It was a cozy place with kind people and had everything he could ever need. The original plan had been to save up to build himself a house, but that was rather impractical with the coin he made from the lumbermill and it didn’t take long for him to decide that it wasn’t worth the effort, anyway. He felt quite satisfied with his life at the Vilemyr. Besides, the extra money he wasn’t putting away for a house could now get sent back to his family in Valenwood, so everything worked out.

The evening found Gwilin sitting at the bar chatting with Wilhelm, the innkeeper and his best friend. He had finished his dinner and was now slowly nursing an ale, his wide, alert eyes taking in the quiet commotion of Ivarstead’s denizens. Lynly, the lovely new bard who had suddenly appeared in the small town a few months ago, regaled the patrons with a peaceful tune on the lute. Gwilin loved music, always had. It had been ages since he’d picked up an instrument, but he liked to think his fingers and mouth would remember how to play like they knew how to tie a knot or laugh.

The chatter in the tavern came to an abrupt halt when the front door burst open with an echoing _slam_. Gwilin instinctively cringed as all eyes fell upon the bundle of pink and yellow that had just marched into the Inn. With a huff, the woman stuck out a stout leg and kicked the door shut behind her. Lynly, who had stopped playing at the interruption, cleared her throat icily and restarted her song a few bars back.

The Priestess of Kynareth, Claudette, did not seem to notice.

She flung herself atop a stool at the bar a few seats down from Gwilin and fixed those blazing green eyes on Wilhelm, who was not thrilled with the way she had stormed in. “What can I do for you?” he asked tightly.

At first she seemed taken aback at his tone, but then her face softened. “S-sorry,” she murmured. “I didn’t mean to…” She gestured vaguely around her to indicate the ruckus she’d caused. “A bowl of whatever’s cooking and a big-ass mug of mead, please.”

Wilhelm gave her a nod and set to gathering what she’d ordered. He threw Gwilin a commiserative look that seemed to say, _that’s one crazy bitch, huh?_ , having no idea that Gwilin held a soft spot for this particular bitch.

“Good evening, Miss Claudette,” Gwilin said carefully, half expecting her to snap at him for speaking to her twice in one day. Given the way she’d walked in here, perhaps this wasn’t the best time to try to strike up a conversation. But she had never shown up at the Inn after her pilgrimages before. In fact, as far as he knew, the only thing she ever did in Ivarstead was plow right through it on her way to High Hrothgar. He didn’t know what had led her to the Vilemyr tonight, and could only guess it was because something must have put her behind schedule. Somehow, this felt like an opportunity Gwilin would not come by twice.

The woman shifted so she was facing him and her eyes lit up in recognition. “Ah,” she said. “Hello, Gwilin.”

He had to stop himself from blurting, “You remember my name!” even though he had only told it to her this morning. He settled on a smile and said, “I trust your trip up on the mountain was a pleasant one? The weather today was truly a gift from the gods.”

“Actually,” she said, grabbing her hood with both hands and easing it back a little, “today sucked.”

With this new lighting, Gwilin could suddenly see that she had sustained a black eye and a purpling bruise along her chin. “Oh,” he gasped. “Oh, goodness. What happened? Are you alright? I’m sure we could-” he had been about to say “send for a healer,” but that seemed a little silly.

She sighed and let the hood fall back into place, much to his disappointment. Her hair looked pretty and he wanted to see it curled behind her cute, rounded human ears. He was almost sure now that she was a Breton – what other race had women as short as his own but without the slender build and high cheekbones? 

“It was my own stupidity,” she griped. “I ran into a frost troll. Not a huge deal, since I’m okay with destruction spells, but I had just taken down a pair of spiders and my magicka was so drained I was feeling woozy. I dove into a little crag in the mountain to hide, which is how I got the bruises – thanks,” she said to Wilhelm, who had just set down the requested big-ass mug, “and that was great and all, for the first five minutes. But he was on some gods-damned troll patrol or something because I ended up spending hours hiding in there while he proceeded to go dicking around in the general vicinity.”

“And your magicka never came back?”

She expelled a breath. “Okay, well, maybe not _hours_ , but it felt like that. And I wanted to make sure it was completely restored so I didn’t run out in the middle of the confrontation.”

Gwilin was curious. He had never done anything as exciting as battling a frost troll. “Is it true, what they say – do trolls regenerate health?”

She raised both eyebrows. “It’s not as though he had a little bar floating over his head showing how much health he had.”

He chuckled. “That makes sense.”

“But it sure did take a while for the bastard to go down.” She took a swig of mead as though to emphasize her battle-weary warrior image, which was diminished only slightly by her adorable dimples. “Anyway, it put a real damper on my whole pilgrimage and I didn’t feel very at-one with nature after having to take down those beasts, so I kept losing focus during my meditations and next thing I know, the sun’s going down.”

“Are you in pain?”

“No, no,” she replied. “I’ll heal the bruises later tonight. I just prefer a mirror when I’m healing part of me I can’t see. Makes it easier.”

“How did you do it?” he asked, thoroughly enraptured in her adventure. “Fighting the troll, I mean. Flames?”

She nodded, replacing her drink. “And a greater ward.”

“Whoa,” he breathed. “Isn’t that an advanced spell? You must be an impressive mage!”

“You could say that,” she responded, not boastfully, “though I’m a little pigeonholed. Restoration is a must for all priestesses of Kynareth. Here,” she said, reaching over, and at first Gwilin was unsure what she intended to do. “I’ll show you.”

Claudette took his left hand, which had been resting on the bar, and gently turned it palm-up. “Yep,” she assessed, “all blistered from chopping wood.” She gave it a little yank which he somehow understood meant she wanted his other hand too, so he released his mug and put it beside the other. Claudette placed both of her pale little hands atop his tan, calloused palms and enveloped them in a miasma of golden tendrils. 

Gwilin emitted a long, low moan as though she had just given his dick a good tug.

A few of the nearby customers swiveled their heads in curiosity and Gwilin’s cheeks turned the color of snowberries. Claudette withdrew her hands when she had finished, not at all embarrassed.

“Sorry,” he choked out.

She waved him off. “Please. Healing is a regular part of my responsibilities as a servant of Kynareth. I’ve heard some pretty weird shit from people.” She began to tuck into the plate Wilhelm had just set in front of her. With her mouth full of rabbit stew, she said, “Once I was working on a badly wounded soldier and in his delirium he said, clear as day, ‘Just like that, daddy.’”

Gwilin burst out laughing. “W-what?”

She shrugged. “I quite often see men, mer, and beastkin at their very worst. You learn not to judge.”

The Bosmer felt his heart beat staccato as affection for the little Breton priestess bloomed inside him. She was cute, funny, and the last thing out of her mouth sounded an awful lot like something Gwilin himself would say.

“Well, thank you. I don’t even think I realized my hands were hurting, but they feel much better now.” Tingly, even, but that seemed like a weird thing to bring up.

“Don’t mention it.”

“Is there anything I can do for you?”

“Huh?” she asked in between spoonfuls of stew.

“I mean,” he began again, squiggling to sit up straight on his barstool. “It seems like you had a bad day, what with the troll interrupting your pilgrimage. And you help people all the time. So is there anything I can do for you, priestess?”

And then Claudette was blushing, like he had caught her in the middle of a dirty thought. Had he? Could it be that in innocently offering her a favor – because that’s what it was, truly, just an innocent offer – he had invited her to act on her desire for him? He had no idea what her preferences were, if she liked elves or even males, and maybe this was all just wishful thinking, because why would someone like her—

“No,” she squeaked, and hunched over her supper like she was trying to disappear.

Gwilin, riding on a little wave of courage from the submissiveness that had crept into her deportment, put on his best rakish smile and said, “Oh, I think there is.”

“No,” she repeated, firmer this time, not meeting his eyes. “It’s not appropriate.”

“You ought to tell me what you mean, before I get the wrong idea,” he insisted playfully.

“It’s just – I don’t – I don’t want to offend you. I think it might be racist. You seem like a nice guy,” she said, finally looking up at him to smile, “so the last thing I want to do is put my foot in my mouth and make you feel like I’m reducing you to your race.”

Well Divines, now he was just _morbidly_ curious as to what she could be talking about. It registered faintly that Wilhelm was watching their conversation with reserved amusement, but the innkeeper didn’t say anything and Gwilin remained firmly entrenched in the conversation.

As sincerely as he could manage, he leaned forward and said, “On my honor, whatever you say shall not hurt my feelings. Especially because I know you’ll be saying it with good intentions.” She didn’t speak. “Go ahead.”

Claudette sighed placed her spoon back in her stew. “All… all right.” She better hurry up and spit it out, because Gwilin’s predictions as to this potential favor were getting kinkier by the second, and he was a little disappointed in his lack of innate chivalry.

“Wood elves – Bosmer, I mean – have an inborn ability to control the will of wild animals. To influence beasts of the forest to fight alongside them. Is that so?”

Gwilin had only ever used his power to make those beasts flee, in order to avoid confrontation, but she was not wrong. “Yes.”

“But let’s say… let’s say you didn’t want to the animal to fight for you. Let’s say you wanted something more along the lines of… just… petting it.” Gwilin opened his mouth to answer, which triggered Claudette to burst into further explanation. Her eyes growing impossibly wide and owlish, she confessed, “I just love animals, I just _love_ them, they bring a smile to my face like nothing else, in fact it’s part of the reason I worship our Lady Kyne, and when I see these majestic deer and cute little foxes I just wish I could mush their precious stupid faces and, like, _coo_ at them until I die from how _cute_ they are…”

Gwilin held up his hands, laughing at just how cute the woman in front of him was. “Look, it’s not anything I’ve tried to do before, but I can certainly take tomorrow morning off and give it a shot. I can at least promise you won’t be in any danger. If the animals won’t let you pet them, I’m sure I can influence them to flee.”

Claudette’s sweet face split into a smile. “Really? You would do that for me?”

“I could certainly try, yes.”

Elated, she hopped up from her chair and smothered him in an awkward you’re-sitting-down-I’m-standing-up hug. “Oh, thank you, Gwilin! What a kind person you are! A thousand blessings of Kynareth upon you!”

“Easy there,” Wilhelm interjected softly, clearly too entertained by the scene to keep quiet. “Don’t break him or nothing. There’s not another one like him.”

She beamed at Wilhelm and scurried back to her seat. “No, there’s really not, huh? I – I can’t believe it!” She reached into her coin purse and scooped out a generous handful, laying it down on the wood with a clink. “If you don’t mind showing me to a room, I need to get some rest. I want to be at my best for tomorrow.” She turned to Gwilin. “Where should I meet you?”

“Here at the bar is fine,” he said, sort of wishing she was still hugging him.

“Okay, okay.” She was so clearly ecstatic as she gulped down the last of her mead and Wilhelm slid the gold off the bar. “I’ll see you both in the morning!” She danced from foot to foot as Wilhelm joined her on the other side of the counter and began escorting her to a room. She gave a quick little wave over her shoulder to Gwilin, who waved back, and she disappeared around a threshold.

Gwilin slipped off to his own room, hoping to avoid a debriefing with Wilhelm. How had four years of grumpiness simply melted away, leaving nothing but a warm, girlish ball of energy like that? Could it really be just because of him – because of Gwilin? He undressed and got into bed, replaying their conversation to the muted tunes of Lynly’s songs. He couldn’t remember the last time he had gone to sleep so damn happy – and coming from him, that was saying something.

\---

Gwilin had only been sitting at the bar for a moment when his pretty Breton friend emerged from her room. Just like last night, and quite unlike every other time he had seen her, she was all smiles. He couldn’t help but return the gesture.

“So,” she said, heading towards the exit. “How did you sleep?”

“Oh, fine,” he lied. He had spent an awful lot of time thinking about her. “You?”

Claudette made a wishy-washy sign with her hand. “My body was tired, but my mind wasn’t.” She held open the door for him like she expected him to walk out first. Gwilin paused, uncertain. He could easily reach over her head and try to take the door from her, which was the gentlemanly thing to – the polite, decent thing, even – but in the time he was taking to calculate if this would somehow offend her, she shook her head in slight disappointment and rolled forward so that she was over the threshold. Gwilin scurried to follow.

“We’ll need to stop by the mill,” he pointed out, “to let Miss Temba know I’ll be a little late.” He hesitated. “She’s apt to get a bit upset, but don’t worry. She’s always like that.”

Claudette frowned at him. It was a beautifully sunny day, and unnaturally breezy to boot. “Is this going to get you in trouble?”

“No, no,” he said quickly. “But just to be safe, I’m going to, uh, fudge the details of our expedition a bit. She has a _thing_ about wildlife.” He walked up to the branch-woven fence in front of the mill and waved to his boss, who was just putting on her gloves for the day. She looked from her employee to the priestess and then back again. 

“What’s this, now?” Temba asked curtly, striding up to the pair.

Gwilin flashed her a radiant smile. “Miss Temba, meet Claudette. She’s a healer-priestess and she asked if I’d show her a few of the local medicinal herbs. It won’t take more than an hour, and I’ll stay as late as you want to make up for lost time.”

“Dammit, Gwilin,” she snarled. “We’ve got a lot to get done today. Hurry your ass back here, and don’t get eaten by any cave bears while you’re out there. Bloodthirsty mongrels.”

“They’ve be terrorizing the livestock at night,” Gwilin explained, hoping his new friend wouldn’t launch into a sermon about her apparent love for wild animals. 

A sly little smile appeared on Claudette’s face, her plump cheeks bunching back to create two stunning dimples. “Say… Temba, was it? I happen to know a Companion of Jorrvaskr who kills bears all the time. You’d think just about every day, from hearing her talk. I’m sure I could convince her to stop by Ivarstead for her recreational bear-slaughtering next time she’s in the Rift.”

Temba got a look in her eye that could only be described as lovestruck. “Oh, my. Well. That would be – absolutely wonderful,” she breathed.

Claudette reached over and shook the woman’s hand. “I should be back in Whiterun by nightfall. I’ll speak with Ria and let her know about your predicament.”

“Thank you, priestess. Peace of – uh -” Temba paused, then asked, “what priesthood do you belong to?”

Claudette caught her amulet between fingers, and Gwilin found himself grateful for an excuse to let his eyes wander to her chest. “Kynareth,” she explained. “The goddess who created man on this very mountain.”

Gwilin, of course, had known that the mountain he lived beneath was sacred, but it had not struck him until now that he didn’t really know why. What had made the Greybeards choose this spot for their monastery, and those etched tablets along the path – what did they say? His boss and the priestess bid each other farewell and Gwilin caught up with the latter, eager to ask questions.

“Tell me about the Temple of Kynareth where you serve,” he said. “What’s it like?”

“Too many people,” she exhaled, the puff of air blowing back an errant lock of hair. “It’s right in the middle of Whiterun and it gets overwhelming. Some days it feels like a glorified infirmary, with invalids groaning on our healing tables and townspeople coming to the shrine to pray for their sick.” She shook her head. “It’s like they just see the goddess as a means to be cured, like she’s only as good as the service she offers. No one comes to the Temple to thank Kynareth for the stars in the night sky or the quenching waters that sustain their crops. It’s only to be bandaged up, to be blessed, and to be on their merry way. Up to Dragonsreach for political posturing or down to the Bannered Mare for drinks and a lay.”

“Hey,” Gwilin said, snapping his fingers. “Whiterun – I remember hearing about some crazy priest there who’s always yelling at people about being unworthy. Do you work with him?”

The Breton screwed up her face. “ _Heimskr_ ,” she enunciated, as though Gwilin was now to commit the name to memory, “is a priest of Talos, so no, I don’t work with him. But he isn’t crazy. He’s zealous. He has fallen so in love with what he worships that he has sacrificed his own reputation… and most of his sanity, too… in order to evangelize. It’s noble.”

Gwilin had unfortunately missed all the signs that this was a sensitive subject for her, and went on to blurt, “Sounds like you’ve got a little crush on him.”

And just like that, she was back – the irascible little human with a scowl on her face that Gwilin had been observing for years. “Shut up,” she barked at him. “That’s none of your business! And he’s too old for me. And he’s taken vows of celibacy in order not to get distracted while preaching.” She knotted her arms under her chest and her footsteps became more like stomps. “Where in Oblivion are all these animals at, anyway?”

Gwilin felt awful. He let out a sigh and turned away, ashamed. He was always forgetting that the rest of the world, especially humans, _especially_ Bretons, could be so much more mercurial than him. It would take an actual punch to the gut to truly offend Gwilin – anything short of that, he assumed was said with good intention or out of pardonable ignorance. 

“Hey,” Claudette said when she saw he wasn’t answering. “I – shit, I’m sorry, I – I struggle with anger sometimes, especially when I’m cranky from traveling. You were only joking.”

“I should be apologizing to you,” he returned quickly, almost taking her soft, pale hand in his. He hoped his eyes conveyed his earnestness. “I crossed a line, and I hope you can forgive me. I would really like for you to have a nice time this morning. I know how much it means to you.”

She smiled, with obvious effort, and nodded. “Sure thing.” The smile suddenly turned genuine. “Hey, did your boss say something about cave bears? Oh man, would I love to pet one of those!”

“A cave bear?” he balked. “You wouldn’t prefer a… I don’t know, a bunny or something? I thought you were talking about foxes yesterday.”

“Yeah but that’s before someone mentioned a cave bear!” she insisted gleefully. “Could you do that, Gwilin? Do you have any idea where we might find one?”

He gulped. He ought to remind her that he’d never actually swayed an animal into being petted before, and perhaps they might set their sights on something a bit less ambitious…?

“Oh look!” she chirped, pointing downstream. “A cave!”

Well, that was settled. Gwilin suppressed a sigh and put on a smile for the sake of his companion. “Alright then. Let’s try the cave.”

They walked in easy silence for a few moments, the grass crunching pleasantly beneath their feet. Gwilin found himself humming a tune, their previous upset completely forgotten. His mind was wandering to more pleasant topics, like the glorious pressure of Claudette’s chest against his stomach when she had hugged him last night. The memory was at risk of tumbling into a lurid alternate-ending fantasy when an excited shriek from beside him snapped him out of it.

“Here we go,” Claudette said, her smile wider than he had ever seen it. He followed her pointing finger to a massive brown lump lumbering towards a berry bush. It had not yet noticed them.

_Don’t mess this up, old boy,_ he told himself firmly, the closest he had ever gotten to negative self-talk. He fixed his eyes on the animal, took a bold step forward, and pushed all his focus outward as though it were a physical thing.

A burst of what seemed to be sunlight jetted from Gwilin’s chest towards the animal with a deafening sound somewhere between a gust of wind and the tinkling of coins. The light washed over the animal just as it was turning its head towards them. It abruptly tensed up and began running in the other direction.

Gwilin cursed inwardly and tried to keep his focus. With his eyes trained on the retreating figure of the bear, he felt a pang of relief when it slowed in its retreat and eventually stopped. It stayed there, panting, facing away from them. Gwilin took a few steps forward with no consequence. “Go on,” he said to the priestess at length. “Your friend is waiting.”

He refused to take his gaze off the bear, but from his periphery he saw the priestess begin her approach. She took slow, confident strides towards the bear and paused a few paces away from it. She clucked her tongue, like she was calling a dog, and the bear obediently turned around. The height parity was comical – standing on all fours, the bear was still above her eye level. Gwilin watched warily, suspicious of how well this was going.

That’s when Claudette slapped a hand on either cheek of the bear, pushed her face right up against its nose and sang, “Well aren’t you just the sweetest little apex predator in all of Skyrim?”

The cave bear’s beady eyes found hers, and for a moment, everything else but that eye-lock fell away. Gwilin watched as they sized each other up, Claudette with a huge beam on her face, the cave bear with a lip tentatively curling to display its yellowed teeth. 

And then the huge, furry creature smushed its nose against the priestess’s, and for a terrible moment Gwilin thought it had bitten her face off. It was only when Claudette emitted a gleeful giggle that he realized the act had been nothing more than an aggressive nuzzle.

Claudette peppered her new friend’s face with exaggerated smooches and cooed in the brief moments when her lips weren’t otherwise occupied. The bear preened under the attention, closing its eyes like a happy housecat and bopping its head up to meet each kiss. Gwilin couldn’t help himself from letting out a terse, incredulous chuckle.

He had barely twitched since the interlude began, fearful that any motion might break the tenuous grasp he had on this magic. Like most Bosmer, he supposed, he did not exactly have a scholarly comprehension of how his command animal power operated. In any event, he was quite content to watch his cute priestess pal around with the bear. He would have been more worried about distractions if she were, say, standing beside him, but he didn’t think he’d have any problem keeping his focus when it had to be on her. Right, yes, and the cave bear.

Eventually Claudette and her mush of a pet collapsed into a mound of cuddles. In the shuffle her gold cloth cowl fell back across her shoulders, releasing a messy static-addled curtain of hair around her pasty face. She hardly seemed to notice and did not make any move to replace it. Gwilin thought she looked _perfect_ at that moment, with her big goofy smile and a constellation of freckles several shades lighter than her hair. She sighed happily and snuggled against the cave bear’s side as it curled around its human friend.

Just when Gwilin had found his thoughts drifting to other articles of clothing innocently slipping off her body, stirrings from the cave behind her caught his attention. To his abject horror, another two bears were slinking into the sun. He was about to call her name but he saw that the priestess had noticed, too. She threw a worried glance over her shoulder at the elf.

He had to stay calm. The only way this ended in anything other than a blood bath was if he got ahold of himself, concentrated, and made use of the patience and stamina he had built up from chopping wood ten hours a day. With great effort and a deep breath, Gwilin managed to shoot forth another two bursts of light from his chest towards the predators.

He could not keep himself from dropping to one knee from the exertion, but his eyes never left the bears. Squinting, he pushed himself back onto shaky legs and observed the stationary, spell-struck animals. Claudette was tensed, ready to scramble to her feet, her pudgy hands making fists in the fur of her ursine companion.

Then, just like the first one, these two lumbered over to Claudette who threw back her head and loosed the most joyful laugh Gwilin had heard from her yet.

Rather than standing up to greet them, she gesticulated wildly that they should lay down and they somehow understood. One rested a head on her shoulder, the other on her lap, and she settled her back against the first bear like it was a headboard.

Extending his power to the two other bears was like picking up more firewood while he already had his arms full: he was most likely to drop it all while he was in the process of collecting the new ones, and now that everything was gathered, it was just a matter of endurance. But, Oblivion, this was a lot harder than holding logs. Claudette looked over at him and he quickly plastered on a smile, intent not to let her see how much of a strain this was.

“Oh… my… gods, Gwilin, I have a little bear harem! A _bearem_ oh my gods Gwilin I have a bearem,” she effused. She affectionately rubbed her fist into the forehead of the bear resting its head on her lap.

“All four of you… seem very happy,” he managed.

She turned her head so that she was nose-to-nose with the one on her shoulder. “What is it you want, my friend?” she inquired, her voice adorably serious. “Would you like scritchy-scratches? Hmm? Do you want all the scritches behind your ears?”

It could have been hours that transpired as Claudette lavished attention on her bearem, occasionally throwing Gwilin a dreamy smile that was all the thanks he needed and then some. Either she was not a particularly observant girl or she was too steeped in her dream-come-true to notice that he was flagging. Badly. Beads of sweat materialized on his forehead and slid down to his chin, his eyes watering as he feared blinking too much might interfere with his concentration. His body felt oddly overheated even though this morning was cool and breezy.

It was only when Gwilin actually swooned, catching his balance at the last possible second, that he knew time was up. With every last bit of energy that he possessed, he reverted back to the particular brand of command animal that he had been using all his life: flee.

He looked on with considerable guilt as the three bears immediately extricated themselves from a very bewildered Claudette. She frowned as they scrambled away from her, one of them tripping over its own oafish paws, and skittered back towards the cave. Claudette looked from their retreating figures back to Gwilin, and her expression changed.

Gwilin wasn’t sure how she got next to him, but there she was. He was fighting tremors. She put a hand on his shoulder and asked, in a voice that sounded oddly faraway, “Are you alright?”

Was he smiling? He was trying to smile. His eyes were still staring straight ahead but his vision was too blurry to determine if the bears were still there. “Are they gone?” he asked her.

“Yeah,” she said softly, and Gwilin fainted.

\---

Gwilin fizzled out of consciousness for a momentary spell before he found himself opening his eyes again, like someone had snuffed a candle only to relight it. He blinked a few times, dazed, and realized that he was seeing the meadow from a new angle – clearly, he had fallen on his ass. The bright blue sky and swaying grasses and blazing sun was all a bit much for him, so he squeezed his eyes shut again as not to be overwhelmed with dizziness. 

Two strong hands hooked themselves beneath his arms and gently hauled him backwards. His back connected with Claudette’s front as one of her hands gently tucked his head beneath her chin. That meant they were thigh-to-thigh, Gwilin leaning on her body with his forehead nestled against her neck and his nose a thumb’s breadth from being buried in her cleavage. 

Oh, Arkay take him now.

“F-fuck,” he heard the priestess whisper as she began to stroke his hair. Something that may have been a stifled sob seemed to catch in her throat.

As much as Gwilin was thrilled to be in this position, he didn’t want her worrying over his state. Respectfully keeping his eyes closed – though _gods_ what an eyeful he could get right now – he made to scoot away and mumbled, “I’m okay.”

Firmly, but not aggressively, she guided his head back to her chest. “Stay still for a moment, Gwilin,” she told him, and this time he was certain he could hear her fighting tears. Guilt stabbed at him. Had he really been that dramatic about passing out?

“Priestess, I’m sorry if I caused you to worry,” he said, his words just a little slurred. He had mostly stopped shaking, though he doubted he could hold a full glass of water without spilling it. “I’m not – not hurt, or anything.”

“You’re exhausted,” she informed him. The way her chest rose and fell as she breathed was so unintentionally erotic that despite how drained he was, he felt his breeches begin to tighten. He inwardly cursed himself and debated whether pulling away was going to earn him another rebuke or if it would be the most gentlemanly course of action.

They were silent for a moment as Gwilin simply enjoyed existing in the same time and space as this miracle of a woman.

“I’m so sorry, Gwilin,” she blurted abruptly. Her hand ceased stroking his hair and instead rested almost possessively on his head. “Please – please forgive my selfishness.”

“Hmm?”

She huffed impatiently. “I asked you for an impossible favor that physically drained you to the point of losing consciousness. What kind of – selfish jerk…”

Gwilin did open his eyes then, but kept his gaze pointed upward as he shifted his head back a little. From this angle he saw that she had a few tiny hairs on her chin, and a pink bump heralding a future pimple near her temple. He also saw the intense green of her irises through the long curls of her lower lashes, and a vitreous haze as tears materialized.

“Please, my friend, don’t start with a self-loathing routine,” he said as genuinely as possible. Sometimes if he wasn’t deliberate in the way he said things, people assumed he was being sarcastic which was almost never the case. “You are an exciting change of pace from an otherwise boring morning. And I’m completely fine. No need to worry on my behalf.”

Claudette finally flicked her eyes down to his, and the look in them could only be described as warm. A smile tugged at one side of her pretty, imperfect face and she recommenced stroking his hair. “You don’t want to hear me brood?” she asked softly.

“To be perfectly honest I’m about as comfortable as I’ve ever been, so brood away if you want,” he told her cheerfully, resting his forehead back against her neck. Since Claudette had made no indication that she felt he was threatening her modesty, he allowed himself to keep his eyes open this time. The monk robes hid much, but the pale, tantalizing slope of skin below her collarbone was so lovely he was tempted to kiss it.

“Oh really?” she replied coyly. “You got a human kink or something?”

The elf blushed, suddenly shy, and answered, “No, I – I think I just have a _you_ kink. Sorry.” Before he could let his baser instincts get the better of him, he pulled away entirely and situated himself sitting facing her. “I’m usually not so… uh…”

“Hey,” she told him gently. “I wasn’t offended. I am the one who kind of volunteered my girls to be your pillow.”

He laughed incredulously. “Y-yeah. Thanks for that.”

If Gwilin were a Nord, he might have taken her in his arms and kissed her resolutely. If he were an Altmer he would have spun the perfect, most poetic lines to seal the deal. Even sweettalking Khajiit with their power of persuasion or Orcs with their compelling candor would have been a match for the woman before him.

But Gwilin was none of those things. He was a simple man, a wood-elf living in the Rift, who chopped logs for a living and had not had a partner in far too long to have any degree of confidence. All he could do was cautiously rise to his feet, take a few tentative steps, and hold out a hand to help her up.

The Priestess of Kynareth accepted the proffered hand and joined him at his side. “I wish I had some water or something for you,” she said, reaching out to swipe at a lock of hair that had fallen from Gwilin’s ponytail. “Are you certain you can make the walk back?”

“Yes, I’m sure.” 

“Thank you, Gwilin. Truly. That was such an incredible experience.” Her smile was ear to ear. It was disappointing to watch her pull her hood back over her hair, but it was for the best. One less feature for him to fawn over on their way back to Miss Temba’s mill.

“It was my pleasure, Claudette.”

“I would love to buy you a drink as a thanks, but I’d like to make it back to Whiterun before sundown.” It was awfully kind of her to suggest such a thing, but he had no expectations. “Next time, though!” she said quickly. “I’ll be back for another pilgrimage in Sun’s Height. Will you still be around?”

He laughed. “I’m not going anywhere.” Two months, though? He supposed that was her usual schedule, but the thought of waiting so long to see her again was disheartening.

“Good,” she said. “Because you’re… I don’t know. You’re… a special kind of guy, Gwilin.”

“Oh?” he inquired, thoughtfully slowing his footsteps so the little Breton could keep up.

“Yeah. It’s like you magicked the crankiness right out of me. I’m _never_ this pleasant. Trust me,” she grumbled.

“Glad I could be of service,” he quipped, delighted that he’d had such an effect on her. They were approaching the bridge, which meant he was almost back at work and almost parted from this lovely creature for so many, many moons.

“Don’t tell anyone about this,” she continued sternly, “especially any travelers from Whiterun. I prefer to be known as the grumpy healer. No one bothers me and I like it that way.”

He gave her a teasing frown. “I can’t believe that. You have a sweet side to you, Claudette.”

“Hardly!” she insisted. “When I’m in a particularly bad mood, I have such dreadful bedside manner that the only patients I’m allowed to heal are the unconscious ones.”

Miss Temba hastened down the ramp to meet the two of them at the fence. “Ah,” she called. “You’re back. Let’s get going,” she said, pitching a thumb over her shoulder.

“Thanks for letting me borrow him,” Claudette told the woman, giving Gwilin’s bicep an affectionate squeeze. Something in his chest fluttered but he quickly moved over to his chopping block and started slipping his gloves on.

Miss Temba simply grunted. “Don’t forget to send that Companion for the bears.”

“Of course,” Claudette replied. “I can’t promise she won’t have some contracts already scheduled, but I’ll ask her to head to you as soon as possible.”

Gwilin kept his eyes fixed on his boots as he heard Claudette walk away. She called a goodbye, but he couldn’t bring himself to answer. Was he… was he _sad_? But he was Gwilin, for the love of the gods! He didn’t get sad… because of that thing his father used to say, enjoying life and all that…

But for the rest of the day his movements were languid, his focus wrecked, his thoughts dark. It just didn’t seem fair. If Gwilin was the only one who brought out the agreeable side of her, why did they need to live on opposite sides of the tallest mountain in Tamriel? 

A good night’s sleep was all he seemed to need to shake off the malaise. From that point on, when he thought of the Priestess of Kynareth, it was only with fondness for the memories they had shared and the smallest twinge of jealousy for the people in Whiterun who got to see her every day. It would be a long time yet before she returned for her next pilgrimage, but Gwilin counted the days with hope and happiness.

\-----

Not a fortnight later, at the hottest part of the day when Gwilin was taking a brief lunch beneath the roof of the mill, he saw an olive-skinned warrior clad in hide armor and warpaint marching into Ivarstead. She commanded the attention of the villagers as she strode by, an impressive sword dangling at her hip. The Imperial moved straight past the Vilemyr Inn and continued towards the mill. So this must be the promised Companion of Jorrvaskr, sent to take care of the bear problem. Miss Temba would be beside herself with joy.

But not, perhaps, as much as Gwilin. Because by the warrior’s side, blustering through the village like the goddess of the storm herself, was a short, smiling Breton with her eyes trained on him.


End file.
